The Whole Cat and Caboodle: Second Chance Cat Mystery Read Free

own boat. He worked for me because he said he liked fixing things.
    Second Chance had been open for a little less than four months. The main floor was one big open area, with some storage behind the staircase to the second floor. My office was under the eaves on the second floor. There was also a minuscule staff room and one other large space that was being used for storage.
    Some things we offered in the shop were vintage kitsch, like my yellow vinyl Wonder Woman lunch box—with matching thermos. Some things were like Elvis—working on a new incarnation, like the electric blue shelving unit that used to be a floor-model TV console. Everything in the store was on its second or sometimes third life.
    Our stock came from lots of different places: flea markets, yard sales, people looking to downsize. Mac had even trash-picked a metal bed frame that we’d sold for a very nice profit. A couple of Dumpster divers had been stopping by fairly regularly and in the last month I’d bought items from the estates of three different people. So far, rummaging around in boxes and closets I’d found half a dozen wills, a diamond ring, a set of false teeth, a stuffed armadillo and a box of ashes that thankfully were the remains of someone’s long-ago love letters and not, well, the remains of someone.
    We sold some items in the store on consignment. Others, like the post office desk, we’d buy outright and refurbish. Mac could repair just about anything, and I was pretty good at coming up with new ways to use old things. And if I ran out of ideas, I could just call my mom, who was a master at giving new life to other people’s discards.
    Elvis had headed for a couple that was browsing near the guitars on the back wall. The young woman crouched down, stroking his fur and making sympathetic noises about his nose. The young man moved a couple of steps sideways to take a closer look at a Washburn mandolin from the ’70s, with a spruce top and ebony fingerboard.
    Avery had finished with the customer at the counter. She walked over and lifted the mandolin down from its place on the wall and handed it to the young man. “Why don’t you give it a try?” she said. I knew as soon as he had it in his hands he’d be sold.
    Avery glanced down at Elvis. He tipped his furry head to one side, leaning into the hand of the young woman who was scratching the top of his head, commanding all her attention, and it almost looked as though he winked at Avery.
    A musical instrument was the reason I’d ended up with Elvis—that and his slightly devious nature. I’d taken a guitar down to Sam for a second opinion on what it was worth. Sam Newman and my dad had grown up together. I could play, and I knew a little about some of the older models, but Sam knew more about guitars than anyone I’d ever met. I’d found him sitting in one of the back booths with a cup of coffee and a pile of sheet music. The cat was on the opposite banquette, eating what looked suspiciously to me like scrambled eggs and salami.
    Sam had moved his mug and the music out of the way, and I’d set the guitar case on the table. Elvis studied me for a moment and then went back to his breakfast.
    “Who’s your friend?” I asked, tipping my head toward the cat.
    “That’s Elvis,” Sam said, flipping open the latches on the battered Tolex case with his long fingers. He was tall and lean, his shaggy hair a mix of blond and white.
    “Really?” I said. “The King of Rock and Roll was reincarnated as a cat?”
    Sam looked at me over the top of his dollar-store reading glasses. “Ha, ha. You’re so funny.”
    I made a face at him. Elvis was watching me again. “Move over.” I gestured with one hand. To my surprise the cat obligingly scooted around to the other side of the plate. “Thank you,” I said, sliding onto the burgundy vinyl. He dipped his head, almost as though he were saying, “You’re welcome,” and went back to his scrambled eggs. They were definitely Sam’s